


in want and need

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Bladder Control, Desperation, Desperation Play, Fluffy Ending, Gil's kind of into it, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Malcolm's kind of into it too, Masochism, Mild Painplay, Mutual Pining, Older Man/Younger Man, Omorashi, PWP only it's actually got a plot, Self-Hatred, Subspace, Watersports (kind of?), and that's okay, look the bottom line is it's Malcolm squirming and desperate while trying to solve a case, nobody's perfect, the author is definitely into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22635379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Malcolm tends to forget a lot of things when he gets excited about a case.Unimportant things, really.It isn't healthy, but then he supposes nothing he does is.|OR|Malcolm finds an unconventional way of punishing himself with pain he thinks he deserves (again), causes everyone to worry about his well-being (again), pines over Gil (a lot), and then gets thoroughly fucked.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 22
Kudos: 105
Collections: Anonymous





	in want and need

**Author's Note:**

> The details for the case I made for this seem to actually make sense most of the time, but honestly I’m just flabbergasted no one’s made this twink squirm yet, so that’s the part I cared about writing. Maybe consider it PWP, except the first P doesn’t stand for porn. P&PWP. Look, again, no one is perfect.

Malcolm tends to forget a lot of things when he gets excited about a case.

Unimportant things, really. 

He forgets to eat, but that’s only because he doesn’t really need to. He only needs food when he starts to feel weak or can’t think straight anymore, and that’s not usually more than once a day. 

He forgets to sleep, but again it’s not something he _needs._ He’s learned to function perfectly well without it, after two decades of trauma-induced night terrors that leave him with a few hours every few nights, if that. 

He’s forgotten to do his tie, or tuck in his shirt. It earns him a quip from JT, or a pat on the shoulder from Gil while he fixes it or Gil does.

And then he steps out of the taxi one cold morning, at the edge of the woods of the crime scene Gil’s called him to, and he discovers a very strange thing he’s seemed to have forgotten to do before leaving his apartment.

He got dressed. He drank coffee. He even perfected his tie and clipped it to his shirt. 

But he realizes only now that he forgot to _pee._

He supposes it isn’t extraordinary. He gets caught up in creating his profiles more often than not, for hours at a time. It’s happened before. But that’s at home or somewhere he can quickly remedy the issue. And as he glances around at the NYPD officers swarming the area, their cars blocking off the road at every angle, he sees that here is not somewhere like that.

He straightens out his suit, clears his throat, and walks down the trail, ducking under yellow crime tape and side-stepping a few thick roots curling up from the dirt. 

It doesn’t matter. There's not many things in his life that he has complete control over. Not his past, his family, or the terrors that keep him from sleep. But his body and the way people see him? Easy to manipulate any way he wants. Nothing to worry about. 

Gil meets him with a hand on the back of his neck and an affectionate smile. It pronounces the wrinkles beside either eye, and Malcolm hates how much he wants to reach out and touch them, touch _Gil._ He wants that hand, those _hands,_ on the rest of him. He wants them to run along his throat, down his chest, to…

He shakes his head. Those thoughts are sickening. He shouldn’t be having them, not towards Gil. It’s not right. And yet.

“You okay, kid?” Gil asks, and Malcolm holds Gil’s wrist, smiling weakly.

“Yeah,” he says, pulling them apart before the thoughts can continue and clapping his hands together. “Now. Let’s take a look at this body.”

“I will never get used to how happy you sound saying that,” JT tells him, standing beside Dani, and her head dips as she laughs. 

“Good morning,” Malcolm replies, unfazed. 

“Good morning!” Edrisa says before any of them can, greeting Malcolm with a wave of her bloody gloved hand as he crouches down beside her with a slight wince.

She asks if he’s okay. He can’t tell her _why_ he’s uncomfortable, so he just nods and smiles and says he’s fine.

That just so happens to be what he’s best at.

* * *

Gil gives him a ride back to the precinct. He thinks about his profile on the way, biting a nail, and then Gil pats his knee to let him know they’ve arrived, unbuckling his seatbelt. 

The touch sends a shiver through him, and he jerks upright. Gil shouldn’t be putting his hands anywhere near him.

Gil glances at him strangely. He’s not a profiler, but he’s more tuned into Malcolm’s emotions than Malcolm himself is, notices every change. He’s been around Malcolm since Malcolm was a child. And that’s why these feelings aren’t okay. Malcolm is disgusting. Malcolm is taking his issues with his father to a-whole-nother level. It isn’t healthy, but then he supposes nothing he does is.

Malcolm pulls off his own seatbelt and takes a deep breath. He hadn’t noticed just how much the strap was digging into him and with the discomfort gone he rolls his shoulders and relaxes a little.

“What’s wrong?” Gil finally asks, and Malcolm thinks how embarrassing it would be to explain his discomfort, and how impossible it would be to explain his thoughts. He’d frighten Gil off, ruin the strong relationship they already had, and that’s not worth anything Malcolm can think of alone in his place, groaning out a name he shouldn’t be and coming into his hand.

So he replies, “Nothing. I’m just a little tired.”

“Haven’t been sleeping?” 

Malcolm grins and pushes the door open. “Never,” he says, hopping out. He lands on his feet with a grunt of pain—he _really_ has to pee now—and then Gil has his hand on his neck again and is leading him forward.

He’s touch-starved. Needy for affection, for attention, _desperate_ for it, just as he’s always been. It’s probably not Gil. He’d probably let anyone take him, if they gave him what he wanted. He has. 

But it is Gil, because that’s who his thoughts always come back to. Face pressed into pillows of dark rooms, and he’d think of Gil. Fingers touching over his body, and he’d think of Gil.

He aches for Gil’s touch, his comfort. He’d like sex—no, needs it, _craves_ it—but even more than that he wants to lay with Gil, forever, in his arms, skin pressed against skin with nothing between them. Beside Gil, in his arms, is the most incredible place Malcolm can imagine being.

His touch, addicting and pleasing in a way that no one else's could ever be, a way that blanks out his rational thoughts every time he receives it, is the only reason he allows Gil to lead him straight into the conference room where Dani and JT are, and the only reason he doesn’t leave again is because he has things to add to the caseboard, and those details are more important.

And then Edrisa brings them crime scene photos, lab reports, toxicologies, files. There’s more information, and Malcolm’s brain starts to work on its own, tunes out his own needs and focuses on what he can do to catch the criminal(s?) before they kill again. That’s all that matters. That’s all that ever matters.

When he stands up in front of them to give the profile, he remembers. All at once he can’t stay still, and he’s swaying as he speaks.

“Dude,” JT finally interrupts, gesturing at him. “Is the dancing part of your whole profiler process? You’re seriously makin’ me dizzy.”

Malcolm freezes, and feels a blush coloring his face. He hadn’t known it was so noticeable. He can only imagine the way they would tease him for this _._

“No,” he says, and plants his feet firmly into one spot on the ground, clenching his hand into a fist and shoving it into his pocket. “It’s, er—I—excuse me a moment.”

He’s taken one step towards the door when Gil’s phone pings, and he stops to listen to Gil as he speaks to whoever’s on the other line.

“There’s another body,” Gil says when he hangs up. “Same age of the last victim, from the same area, went missing around the same time.”

“The body’s not even twenty-four hours old,” Dani says. “If it’s the same guys, that’s not a lot of time between kills.” 

“The same time?” Malcolm asks, grabbing onto the edge of the caseboard and squeezing it tightly. “He took a second victim the same night. The second prints at the scene weren’t from another killer, they’re from the other victim. That’s why the stabs were so shallow. They were _hesitant._ Our killer made his victim murder for him.”

“If there’s another body…” JT says.

Malcolm nods and looks at Gil. “That means there might be another victim. I’ve been profiling this as two people, but I think it’s only one. Our killer doesn’t participate. He watches.” 

Gil sighs. “Dani, I need you to look through all the missing persons from the last week. Look for multiples in the same place, similar to our victims. JT, check out the body. Look for any new prints, any sign of someone else at the scenes. Bright, you’re with me. We’ll talk to the first two families, see what we can find out about the victims from them, until Dani can give us a name of the third. Good?”

They agree and start to move, and Malcolm nods again.

A second victim, because he wasn’t fast enough. _Again._ More blood on his hands. Always more blood on his hands. So much _fucking blood_ on his hands. 

He doesn’t waste anymore time, and doesn’t head anywhere but straight to Gil’s car. 

* * *

He rings the doorbell of the second house and rocks back on his heels. Then forward again, and back. He winces, then forces his face back to neutral. 

Gil reaches out and holds the back of his neck, gently massaging his thumb there, and Malcolm shudders. His entire body is sensitive, on high alert to everything. The change in temperature from the car to the outside. The way his waistband is digging into him in a way it wasn't before. It all bothers him, irritates him, because he’s in _pain_ now, and it’s getting harder to hide. It’s cold, and that makes it worse. He keeps having to get out and walk, and that makes it worse _._ Gil’s touch is so soft _,_ and it might make the pain better but it makes everything else so much damn _worse_ , so he pulls away again. 

Gil puts his hands in his pockets, appearing ashamed when Malcolm glances at him. Why would he be ashamed? He isn’t the one plagued by this disgusting hunger.

He shifts around and knows this is the pain he deserves. He deserves it. Someone else died because his profile wasn’t quick enough, accurate enough, _good_ enough. A third person had a little over half a day to live, if that, and they’re no closer to finding them. 

He hates himself. He’s _worthless._ He deserves this, not relief. He’ll allow himself that when the killer is caught, and not a damn second before. Maybe he should never allow it again, turn this into something he does instead of harming himself other ways, because he wants to fuck who’s basically his father, and that’s a sin all it’s own, one he shouldn’t even be allowing to distract him during a case but damn if it doesn’t always come back up, if _Gil_ doesn’t. Gil is always on his mind, or in the back of it. 

He shouldn’t be, but he is. He always is.

They talk to the family and are leaving with another load of nothing when Dani calls with a name. 

“He’s the only other person that went missing in that area that night,” she says over the speaker in the car as Malcolm carefully sits himself back into the seat. “Says the last person who saw him was the manager inside the gym down the street.”

“Mid Town?” Malcolm asks. Dani agrees and he says, “That’s where our second victim Collins' family said he went every week.”

“I bet our first, too,” Gil says. 

“So what’re we thinking?” Dani asks. “Someone who goes to the gym? A stalker?”

“No,” Malcolm says, shaking his head. He crosses his legs, then spreads them and leans forward, putting his hands on his knees and gritting his teeth. “One man kidnapping three at a time? That wasn’t just strength. That was trust. It’s someone our victims were friends with, or knew well enough to believe they wouldn't harm them. All three of them. This wasn’t random.”

He thinks for a moment, grabbing onto the handle of the door tight enough his knuckles go white. “Are there classes there the night they disappeared?”

“Hold on, let me look.”

Gil settles a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, his forehead creased with concern, and he softly asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Malcolm says breathlessly. “It’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing, he’s about to piss himself in Gil’s precious car, but he’s not going to. He’s _not_ going to. Because he has no control over anything in his life but he can control something as simple as this. Something as simple as making himself hurt, as punishment. He’s done it all his life. This isn’t any different. He might even want it to hurt more, whether or not he can actually handle it. 

“There’s a guy who’s there Thursday and Saturday,” Dani finally says. “Roy Porter. Teaches a couple different fitness classes from seven to ten. The home address on file is to a cafe in Greenpoint. Who even checks these things? Do they just hire anyone?”

Malcolm flips his wrist to look at his watch and shrugs a shoulder. “We should pay him a visit. I love cardio.”

“You’re sweating enough to fit right in,” Gil says, and to Dani, “Thanks, Powell. We’ll let you know.”

He ends the call, and then lightly, playfully pinches just above Malcolm’s elbow, making him jump. “Kid, what the hell’s goin’ on with you? You gettin’ sick or something?”

“Stomach kind of hurts,” Malcolm says, because he thinks it’s the best way to explain the sudden death grip he’s got on his seatbelt to make sure it doesn’t apply pressure to his belly. “But I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine until you’re not,” he says, and Malcolm laughs. It hurts, so he does it again. Gil raises one eyebrow.

“We’ll see how it goes,” Malcolm finally answers, and Gil rolls his eyes and shifts the car into motion.

* * *

Malcolm is flushed as he stands beside Gil at the front counter of the gym, fidgeting and bouncing on his toes. He catches Gil looking at him twice out of the corners of his eyes, but he can’t help it anymore. He can’t keep still. It’s not his choice. His hips sway on their own, and his full bladder screams at him, and he’s not sure how or why he’s _aroused_ by it, but his cock is twitching in his pants with every increasingly intense wave of urgency and he’s confused.

That’s not what he wants. He wants to suffer, not get off on it. He wants to make himself pay, not come. He bites his lip and shoves his hands into his pockets, trying to focus on the case. On the people that died because of his inadequacy. On Roy Porter. On not fucking wetting himself like a petulant little child in front of Gil and this entire gym and having to change his name _again._

“Do you have to _pee?_ ” Gil finally asks, frowning down at him, and Malcolm heaves out a breath he’s been holding for he doesn’t even know how long and shakes his head.

“You’re a bad liar. Go. I don’t think he’s here, anyways. We might have to call out a—"

“They’re taking too long,” Malcolm says, grabbing onto the edge with both hands. “He said he was just checking, right? That shouldn’t take five minutes.”

He looks at his watch again, and then back at the door behind the desk.

“No probable cause, Bright,” Gil warns him, and Bright goes and opens the door anyway.

“Not a cop,” he says as he's peering in. “Hello? Look, I’m _really_ interested in this class…”

He moves down the hall, and a light flickers above him. 

“Hello?”

“ _Excuse me.”_

Malcolm gasps and nearly pisses himself in surprise, turning around to find the man they’d spoken to at the desk coming out from a side room. 

“What are you doing back here?”

“Is this not where the bathrooms are?” he asks weakly, and the way his legs are shaking and his knees are held together makes the man believe him, feel sorry for him.

“No,” he says. “And Roy’s not here. He never showed up. Which is weird as hell, because he was really excited to get the job.”

“You’re friends?” Malcolm asks.

“You could say that, I guess. We used to have beers sometimes, or watch the games together.”

“Used to?”

The man shrugs. “He found new friends after he got hired. Same guys who used to give him a hard time, too...but they were all buddy-buddy last time I saw them. His cousin or some shit gets football tickets all the time where he works, probably gave ‘em some of those. Won me over with ‘em too. I think one of them is named Collins or something. I don’t remember, sorry.”

“That’s enough,” Malcolm says. “Do you know where he lives?”

“I think so. Really run down place but it’s got cable and a couch and the likes.”

“Great.” Malcolm’s voice is choked. A minute trickle of warmth runs down the inside of his thigh, and he grips two handfuls of his coat and ignores it, knocks his thighs together to absorb it into the fabric of his pants. “We’re going to need that address.”

* * *

It’s a twenty minute drive, and Malcolm starts to bounce his leg a few into it but forces the rest of his body to stay still. His hands are in his pockets, but he’s uncertain how long he’s going to be able to keep them there before he resorts to grabbing himself and begging Gil to pull the car over.

But he won’t. He’s still in control. The case isn’t closed yet. He’s reaching the end of his ability to keep it in, but he’s still in control. By a thread, he is.

Gil looks over at him, expression awkward enough that Malcolm is humiliated and blushing before anything can be said.

“Did you…?” 

Malcolm doesn’t lie again, he just doesn’t give any answer at all. Gil draws his own conclusions.

“Why not?”

Malcolm doesn’t say anything. One hand comes out, rubs at his knee, and then tucks away again.

Gil’s lips pucker out, and he’s quiet. Malcolm can’t stand it after a second and he says, “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking. Just stop. It’s not...whatever you’re thinking.”

It's Gil’s turn to squirm and he shifts in the seat, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Malcolm is interested, gazing at him, and Gil glances at him.

“What?”

Malcolm turns to face him best he can. “What do you want from me?”

“Answers?” Gil says uncertainly, and Malcolm shrugs.

“I don’t have any,” he says. 

“You don’t have any. This is…” He laughs quietly. “This is pretty unusual, Bright, even for you. I don’t understand.”

Malcolm bristles, stilling himself purely out of stubborness. “It’s not any of your business.”

“You’re in pain, and I care about you, so it _is_ my business.”

“I’m not…” Malcolm says, and then trails into a silence.

Gil isn’t a profiler, but he doesn’t have to be. He knows Malcolm well, too well for Malcolm’s liking.

“Is that it?” he asks, and Malcolm faces out the window, still without speaking.

“You’re hurting yourself. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Leave it alone,” Malcolm insists, growing angry. He hates how Gil cares so much about him...and he loves it. “We have a case.”

As if in answer Gil’s phone pings. He answers, and JT says, “We got him.”

Gil’s foot presses on the brake just enough to jerk the car, and Malcolm moans, pulling one leg up under him and leaning against the door. 

“What?”

“Porter. The third guy, Lucas, got the upper-hand on him tonight. Beat the hell out of him and called the cops himself. He's already in cuffs."

Gil turns down another street, and blue and red sirens flash at the very end of it. He pulls over to the curb and drags his hands over his face.

"Guy was pretty dumb in the end. Lucas said he was coming out of the drugs while the guy was watching the game."

"There's a game on?" Malcolm asks, voice shaking. "Who won?"

JT sucks at his teeth. "Not Roy Porter. Anyway, we've just got paperwork. Me and Dani are on it. See you back."

They sit for a bit in stunned silence. 

"Alright," Gil says. "Now you have to tell me. Pretty sure that was a sign from God himself."

"I just want to go home, Gil," Malcolm finally replies.

"You're hurting yourself."

Malcolm pushes back against the seat and groans. "It doesn't hurt, I just have to piss! I just forgot to go before! It's nothing!" 

"Kid…" 

Malcolm grits his teeth hard. "Let it go. You don't understand."

“So talk to me,” Gil tells him. And he makes it worse by reaching out and placing his warm hand on Malcolm's shoulder. “Tell me what I don’t understand.”

Malcolm is desperate, his self-control of everything he does threatened, and he reacts to the touch with a stifled grunt. 

Gil goes frozen. He looks Malcolm slowly over and shakes his head hardly enough to be seen.

"What do you want?" he asks. 

"You can't give me what I want," Malcolm says without intending to.

"Kid…" Gil says. He slides his hand up around the back of Malcolm's neck and Malcolm gasps, and then Gil turns to face forward again and puts his hands in his lap. 

Malcolm swallows hard, and he's suddenly too aroused to think much at the moment. "Gil, I…" 

"We should get you home," Gil says. 

Malcolm looks at him and can't speak, because Gil had been considering it. There'd been a flush under his eyes, a tremble in his hand. He'd wanted to touch more. Malcolm's almost positive of it. Almost. If there wasn't other things distracting him, preventing him from thinking straight, he could know better.

Reminded of the horrible throbbing in his swollen belly he holds his arms around it again and says, "Yeah."

He thinks about what it means. Gil had looked at him and felt something good. The way Malcolm's always looked away in his own shame whenever the feelings came up, he's never considered Gil could have been looking like that.

And pulling away. He knows he's Malcolm's father figure. He might suppose it's taking advantage of Malcolm. Malcolm would like to ask. He'd like to clear up any misunderstanding and get what he wants out of it.

But he stays quiet.

Gil walks Malcolm from the car to his apartment door and stops there, watching Malcolm as he shifts his weight and struggles to get his key in the lock. 

He drops it on the ground and nearly loses it all right there. He's held it too long, he's at his limit, he can't bend over. He puts a hand out to the wall and groans, and Gil gets it for him. He unlocks it then slips the key into Malcolm's pocket. His hand lingers there for a second longer than it should, and Malcolm wants Gil to slam him against the wall, to pin him there, to kiss him and take him upstairs and fuck him into his bed.

But he's rushed. He's unable to stay still, and any conversation would be impossible. So it's best if this happens another time.

He still stops at the stairs, the door hanging open behind him. It’s not even the fact he doesn’t think he can get up them, although he _doesn’t_ think he can. 

It’s Gil. He’s still just watching him, making sure he gets inside safe. Always there for him, giving him everything he needs.

Malcolm turns and grabs onto the door. He grabs his cock and squeezes as hard as he needs to, because nothing matters as much as this.

“Gil,” he says.

Gil comes closer, quickly enough it seems he was just waiting for Malcolm to call for him.

_Was he?_

“Yeah?” Gil asks, just a few steps away from him, and Malcolm pulls back, rocks on his feet as he wordlessly offers Gil to come inside.

Gil hesitates before he does. He closes the door, and then Malcolm is cramming his body up against Gil's, boxing him into the corner and grabbing at his shoulders, trying to pull him down.

“Gil,” he says again, grasping at his chin, beard prickling his hands.

Gil is breathing heavily, hand shaking as he encloses Malcolm's thin wrist in it. 

"You want me," Malcolm says, and Gil groans. 

"I can't want you, kid," he says. 

Malcolm grinds himself against Gil and Gil gasps in air.

"Please want me." Malcolm holds onto his shoulders. "Please. Gil. _Please."_

Gil groans louder. He fights with his thoughts, tries to shake them away.

"Please," Malcolm whimpers and Gil swears, grabbing onto the back of Malcolm's neck and jerking him closer.

Their lips brush, but Gil doesn't kiss him. He lets it be Malcolm that inevitably leans up a little more to start it, moaning against Gil's lips.

It's everything he's ever wanted. He wants more, but he doesn't even think sex could feel this good, as good as being wanted and kissed by the man he never thought would give him even that.

Gil pulls away and breathes hard. Malcolm says, “Gil…” again, and Gil grasps his upper arms.

“What do you want, Malcolm?” It comes across different than the last time he asked. Malcolm presses against him again, and feels Gil's half-hard cock against his thigh. 

“You,” Malcolm says, and Gil kisses him again. He cups Malcolm's cheeks and it turns into something deeper, more passionate, not _enough,_ and then as Malcolm ruts against him he also cries out.

Gil jumps, holding Malcolm at arm’s length and looking over his body in fear he's hurt him.

“I have to…” Malcolm is shoving both hands between his legs before finishing and leaning over to push his face into Gil’s chest. “Oh my God I’m gonna—"

Gil grabs him and lifts him and quickly carries him up the stairs, pausing at the door and trying his hardest to reach into Malcolm's pocket for the keys again. 

Malcolm clutches at him and lets out a sob, shaking hard as Gil opens the door. “I can’t—"

"Yes you can. You can. Almost there."

Malcolm gasps for air, jutting one hip against him as the door opens. He's going to lose it in his apartment, all over Gil if he doesn't put him down. "Gil—I'm gonna—"

"Fuck, kid," Gil groans, biting his lip, and Malcolm looks up at him.

"Are you— _turned on?"_

"I don't know," Gil says, except he definitely is. He's even more blushed now, and Malcolm holds onto him tighter. 

"Wait."

Gil stops a few steps away from the bathroom. Malcolm is fit to burst but once again he's found something more important. 

"Are you? Tell me. Gil, tell me!"

Gil holds him closer, grinds his dick up into him. "Kid, _fuck._ Yeah, maybe."

"You kept looking at me," Malcolm says. "You were watching." 

Gil grunts. "Bright—hell, the way you've been squirming...the noises you keep making…"

Malcolm whimpers and wriggles in his arms, and Gil reacts so positively it makes Malcolm laugh. 

"Would you—" he swallows. "Would you take me like this?"

Gil holds him tight, breathing into his neck. The way Malcolm feels his cock jump against him is more than enough reply.

"I can't do that," Gil says anyways. "I'm—your boss. I've known you since you were—"

"I'm thirty-years-old, Gil," Malcolm says. "I'm not a kid. I want this. I want you. Fuck, Gil, I've wanted you so long." 

"That's not good, it's—"

Malcolm clutches at him, kissing him hard and then moaning. "Gil...Gil, I can't keep it in much longer. I _can't._ I've never had to piss so bad. I've never needed your _cock_ so bad. I want it. Please. Please. Just—just fuck me. I'm begging you, Gil. I'm begging. Please fuck me!"

Gil growls and Malcolm feels it in his chest. He holds Malcolm and stays still for a moment more. 

"But—"

"My bed has lining!" Malcolm says. "I have night terrors. It happens. I just wash the sheets. Put me down on it!"

Gil listens. He lays Malcolm on the bed and immediately Malcolm is pulling off clothes, tossing them to the floor. Gil gets his shoes and socks, and then pauses at his pants.

"Please!" Malcolm gasps. 

Gil pulls them down, stares at Malcolm's cock, and Malcolm kicks the pants off his ankles. 

"Gil—" Malcolm reaches up. "Please."

Gil pulls his coat off, his tie, buttons down his shirt and takes off his belt.

"Gil, I have to—" Malcolm's cock twitches, leaks pent-up piss down his thigh, and Gil groans. 

"Touch me—please, Gil—"

The second Gil's hand is around him he's getting hard despite the pain, and he tosses his head back.

"My God, kid," Gil says, finally getting up on the bed to kneel beside him. "Bright...Malcolm, you're beautiful. But this is wrong. This is _wrong."_

"It's right," Malcolm says. "Please. It's so right. It's what I want. Don't you want to give me what I want?"

"Everything you want," Gil says.

Malcolm grabs his arm and slides his hand down to lay on top of Gil's, guiding his hand to stroke. "Gil! I want you. I want your cock. Gil, please give it to me. Fuck, or I can suck it, I wanna suck it, let me—shit, I'm gonna—"

"No," Gil says. He grabs Malcolm tight in his hand and stops the leaking. "Not yet."

Malcolm's hips cant up and he groans, nodding. "Okay. Oh-okay."

"Can you control yourself?" 

Malcolm shakes his head, hard again as Gil starts to stroke him. 

"Then I'll have to help you." 

Malcolm pants. This hadn't started out as anything sexual. Just a missed break, and then another, and then... 

"You were right." 

Gil's eyes look back into his own when second ago they'd been hungrily going up and down Malcolm's naked body. "Right?" 

"It hurts," Malcolm says. "It hurts and I wanted it to hurt. I needed it to."

"Because you think you deserve it," Gil says, and kisses him softly. "You don't deserve pain, kid. I'd be so gentle…"

"Want it sometimes, though," Malcolm says, rutting up. "Kinda want it now."

He lays a hand over his stomach. It hadn't started out as anything sexual, but he wants it now. The way Gil responds to it has turned it into something completely different. No longer just a way to punish himself, but to reward Gil. That's better, more important.

Gil watches him, and Malcolm pushes down. He cries out, and feels himself leak between Gil's fingers, and Gil gasps. 

"Kid—"

" _Fuck me_ ," Malcolm says. He squirms and whines and whimpers, and Gil is kissing him again, stroking him into a full erection. 

"There's lube—" Malcolm points at the table beside his bed, and Gil bites his ear.

"Hold yourself for me," he whispers, and Malcolm grabs himself, squeezes as Gil gets up to grab it.

It's more difficult instantly. With Gil's heat gone from his side the pain is what he focuses on, and he can't keep himself as hard as he needs to, starting to leak.

"Gil—it's coming out, please hurry—"

"Hold it in," Gil says. "Be good for me."

He has to. Malcolm uses all his strength to squeeze, until it hurts more than his bursting bladder, writhing and grabbing the sheets with his other hand until finally Gil returns to him, holds him down and kisses him.

"Good boy," Gil says, and Malcolm's back arches from the title as much as the lubricated finger that slips inside him.

"Gil!" Malcolm cries, and throws his head back as Gil adds a second, scissoring them gently. "Gil, oh fuck—need you—"

"You can stop me," Gil says as he's removing his fingers. He's already rolled a condom on, and Malcolm wishes he hadn't—wants to take him just as he is. "You can. I'll stop. You know I will."

"Don't you fucking stop," Malcolm says. "Fuck me. Gil! Gil, I _need it—"_

Gil presses the head of his cock against Malcolm's hole, and Malcolm jerks. He can't think. He just knows he never thought this would happen, and he still has to pee like never before, and he needs to be fucked _hard._ One of those is still more important than anything right now.

Gil, always Gil.

"Ready?"

"Gil! Yes! _Yes!"_

Gil's tip enters him, his length starting to fill him, and Malcolm yells his pleasure, cries out in ecstasy, flings one arm up over his eyes and gives his cock quick and frantic pumps.

"Giiiiil," he moans, long and loud, "oh, God, Gil...Gil...please…"

Gil pushes further and suddenly the pressure is nothing he can handle anymore. It makes him gasp and shudder. It makes him remember he hasn't pissed in over twelve hours, since sometime last night, and makes him know he can't make it a minute longer. He's exploding, right here and now.

"Oh fuck—" he says, stroking himself faster, desperately, to try and cut off the dribbling stream that's starting to leak out of him. "Gil, I'm gonna—"

Gil kisses him, thrusts the rest of the way in, and Malcolm gasps and grabs Gil's shoulders. It hurts too much, he can't stand it anymore. "I can't— _Gil—"_

"I know," Gil says. "It's okay. I've got you." 

He thrusts in again, starts to fuck him, and Malcolm's bladder finally gives out. He loses control with a yelp, onto Gil and himself and his bed, and feels so completely _owned_ in Gil's arms, so completely safe. He lets go of everything, of his care too, because Gil has him. It's okay, and he's okay.

The relief almost feels better than Gil's cock. _Almost._ Malcolm moans, lax against the bed as Gil fucks him harder, as his bladder finally empties, as Gil tells him how good he is, how good he _feels_.

"Oh fuck—kid—kid, you're so good—you're so good—good boy! You're so good to me, Bright—feel so perfect—"

He's hard again before he knows it, and he grabs onto Gil.

"Harder—" he gasps, and Gil kisses him, pounds into him again and again, reaches down between them to stroke Malcolm's too-sensitive cock.

"I love you!" Malcolm says, whimpering louder and louder as he starts to peak. "Gil—Gil! I love you!"

He almost fears it's too much, and then...

"I love you, Malcolm," Gil tells him. He kisses Malcolm harder, more desperately, gasping as he comes, and with just a few more strokes Malcolm is following, coming so hard and so intense that with a scream he sees only white, and then only black.

He opens his eyes in Gil's arms again, lifted up from the bed and held close.

"Bath?" Gil asks, and Malcolm agrees with a nod and a sigh, content. 

He's never felt so high. He's felt good before, after experimental nights and particularly good fucks, but there had been no scene, no play, no toys. Just Gil and giving over the most basic of needs to be controlled and the elation it's gifted him with.

He's not sure how long he fainted for, but Gil has already drawn a hot bath, already undressed. His skin is so warm against Malcolm's, and Gil steps into the tub and sits with Malcolm between his legs.

Malcolm leans against his chest, head back against Gil's shoulder. Gil washes him so gently, so sweetly, rubs a warm washcloth and soap over his tingling body and every so often plants a loving kiss onto Malcolm's shoulder, his neck, his head.

He's careful and soothing enough Malcolm could fall asleep. He might doze off a few times, especially when Gil lathers shampoo into his hair, fingers massaging his scalp.

He wants to be Gil's forever. He wants this every night. He realizes only now that he doesn't want pain anywhere near as much as he wants love, and maybe that's always been the problem.

Gil wraps him up in a towel once he's clean, carries him to the couch and lays him down. Malcolm drifts into sleep again or somewhere nicer, and then Gil is patting him dry and helping him into pajamas.

"I changed the sheets," Gil says into Malcolm's ear, kissing it afterwards. "Here. Drink this for me."

Malcolm will do _anything_ for him. He parts his lips, and Gil holds a glass up to them, kissing Malcolm's forehead as he sips down the water. 

"Good boy." Gil praises him and carries him back to bed, lays him down. "Restraints?"

Malcolm nods, and Gil is gentle as he puts them on.

"Please," Malcolm says. 

Gil leans, kisses his lips. "What?" 

"Stay with me." 

Gil kisses him again. "You're sure?"

Malcolm fights to keep his eyes from closing. "Stay."

Gil lays beside him, pulling the blankets up. He pulls Malcolm's arm up to duck under the cord of the restraint, and pulls Malcolm back to rest in his arms, against his chest again.

"Thank you," he says, and Gil kisses his shoulder, runs fingers through his hair.

"You're welcome, kid." 

For once, Malcolm sleeps soundly.


End file.
